Fata Morgana (2 page)

He woke upon the floor, in an inferno. The Baron had fled the flames, and Picard rose, struggling through them toward the door. Blazing wood crashed around him as he stumbled into the hall, into an impenetrable curtain of smoke. He groped in the smoke, feeling his way along the red-hot walls, his eyes and nose burning, his throat constricted, his heart suffocating.

The skin of the wall peeled away, then collapsed, revealing the flames that were devouring the entire floor. He lurched through the smoke, trying not to breathe, but forced to inhale the raging cloud. The flames leapt up—the staircase fell away before his eyes, leaving only a flaming hole before him. The landing creaked beneath him, and the soles of his shoes were melting with the heat. Through the crackling of the flames, he heard a hideous wailing. He ran toward it, through another fiery doorway, into another dying room. There was no air, only smoke, and his lungs were bursting in his chest. The wailing cry drew him blindly through the room. He fell in the smoke and crawled across the floor like an infant, his heart pounding wildly. His hand touched the wall and he heard the high-pitched scream directly above him. Reaching up, he clutched a windowsill and raised himself.

The lights of Paris were just beyond him, winking through the deadly grey curtain. He tucked the howling house cat under his arm and threw himself against the window.

“Paul... Paul... wake up...”

He didn’t wish to wake. Memories of a burning desert assailed him and he believed it was Algeria and that the long-dead campaign in which he’d served was still on. The soldiers were singing in his brain, singing of old General Bugeaud, who’d forgotten to put his helmet on during a surprise attack:

Have you seen the helmet, the helmet,

Have you seen the helmet of old man Bugeaud?

The old man led the troops bareheaded into battle, and Picard followed him, across a burning desert. His own helmet was lost, and enemy muskets were firing bullets into his brain. The pain was intense and he didn’t want to wake.

“Paul...”

He opened his eyes, saw a doctor, and an old army comrade. The doctor was listening to his heart. His comrade, Albert the thief, tapped him on the cheek.

“Keep your eyes open.”

He struggled to raise himself. Serrated knives ran across his brow, slicing his brain, turning Albert’s lean-boned face into a rippling pattern of light. Picard fought against the pain and swung his legs to the side of the bed.

“No, monsieur, you must not get up!”

“Albert, help me out of here...”

“Gentlemen, I implore you...”

He gathered his strength and stepped to the floor. “What happened, Albert? I remember the window...”

“You fell through it. A lovely drop. The awning saved you. They removed you from a mountain of flowers.”

“Monsieur Picard, you were nearly asphyxiated. Recovery from this sort of thing is long and very difficult. The after-effects...”

“Please, Doctor,” said Picard, struggling to keep himself conscious. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

The room spun as he dressed in his evening clothes. He adjusted his top hat over the bandage that had been wrapped around his temples. “I had gloves.”

“Of course.” Albert handed them to him.

Picard attempted a bow to the doctor. “My thanks to you.”

“You’re a fool, monsieur.”

“Albert, do you remember the little song...” He struggled to keep his stomach down, for it had begun to rise and fall in a violent storm. They entered the hallway of the hospital. “Do you remember, we sang it in Algeria...”

“Which song? Or shall we sing them all?” Picard leaned on his friend, and they walked through the lobby of the hospital, singing,

“Have you seen the helmet, the helmet,

Have you seen the helmet of old man Bugeaud...”

The sun struck Picard as they entered the street, the muted autumn light as blinding as the desert sun. He closed his eyes, fire leaping in his head, pain mounting at the base of his skull.

“Some easy pickings on this street,” said Albert, glancing at the storefronts. “Small jobs, but they keep one’s fingers toned up.”

Picard stumbled forward; he didn’t recognize the street, the shops, didn’t care, his head was going to explode. Albert touched his sleeve, nodded toward a cloud of pink chiffon coming from a doorway. There were ruffles, a turban of twined scarlet, a fringe of auburn hair along the girl’s forehead. Picard tried to focus as she entered her carriage. The vision in his left eye was disturbed by the swelling there; he saw only a blur of crinolines, the turning of a tiny yellow shoe...

“She’s just come from her dressmaker,” said Albert, pausing to investigate through the shopwindow. “I don’t like cracking places like these, especially at night. Too many rolls of satin and lace all around you in the dark, you feel like you’re lost in somebody’s underwear.”

The shop was a riot of fabric—flowered muslins, brocade, crepe de Chine sewn with gold and silver stars. Picard felt feverish, heard himself babbling of cashmeres, taffeta, anything, to trick himself into thinking he was well. “I grew up next door to a dressmaker... spent my childhood peeking through a keyhole. The ladies... undressing...”

“A blessed childhood,” said Albert.

“Yes... I saw wonderful things each day...”

“Marie-Rose, Marie-Therese...”

“An endless stream of beauty...”

“...Yvette, Denise...”

“I floated in that stream...”

“... Jeanette, Paulette, Lucy...” Albert named the names of women, like beads on a rosary. Picard stared through the dressmaker’s window, caught sight of a chemisette, tossed over the edge of a lacquered dressing screen. His battered spirit moved faintly, quickening, as a blue silk garter followed, and the owner of the shop snatched her curtains shut. Picard turned, they walked. “There was one lady from my childhood, Albert. I can still see her. I am at the keyhole, she is bending over. A deep wide-open neck... trimmed with ribbons...”

“...and her tits...”

“Like... nothing that can be imagined. At eight years of age such things...”

“I’m ashamed to admit,” said Albert, leading them on down the street, “that my great memories—you know, the memories that stick in the heart like these tits you speak of—are all of robberies I committed. There was not even the rustle of my coat, nor the slightest breath. I was invisible. I search for such moments on every job, but they don’t always come. One is not always worthy of the God of Thieves.” He reached in his pocket, brought out a thin cigar. “But I’ve planned a new job... a great work of crime. I’ve decided to...” He struck a match to the cigar. “... steal the piece of the True Cross from the bedside of the Emperor. It rests there, in a tiny casket, between two hollow sapphires. You’ve heard of it? No? It was found on a chain around the neck of Charlemagne. I have an interested buyer. It is, of course...” He tossed the match away... the Pope.”

They walked slowly, toward the Seine. Picard kept his good eye open. In the distance were other floating clouds of silk and velvet, and parasols twirling in the autumn sunlight along the river’s edge.

He sat staring at the shabby wallpaper of his room. Two weeks in bed is enough to ruin a man. He turned toward the window, saw the young men again, in the building across the way. They were standing on their balcony, looking down at the rue de Nesle, and beyond it, toward Dauphine. Young hustlers of the Quarter. Figuring how to swindle a few francs this fine evening, and how to spend it.

They turned, left the balcony windows open. The November wind blew the curtains. He watched them leave the room. They’re going lightly down the stairs now. The one with the beer belly will fart like a wild horse when he hits the street, and his pal will smile at the daughter of the concierge. I know what they’ll do; I watch from my window. Picard has turned into an old woman, keeps track of everything on the rue de Nesle. I used to break wine bottles over my head. For a joke. Now I sit here... like a turnip.

He rose from his old leather armchair; he’d worn numerous holes in it, which were carefully stitched with cobbler’s thread. The chair had many scars, like its owner, and he’d always been comfortable in it.

He reeled toward the kitchen, knocked dizzily about, his head pounding with pain.

How can I report to the Prefect in such condition?

He sliced some bread, took a dirty plate from the pile of dishes, pistols, and ammunition that covered his kitchen counter. The pistols were his favorites—a Colt .358 and the breech-loading Lefaucheux. Between them, guarded by their black barrels, was the gold snuffbox given him by Prince Vatra, a little reward for a private job. A detective can do well for himself in Paris if he’s efficient and discreet; the young woman who’d threatened the Prince with blackmail had been persuaded to desist, the six-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Lefaucheux held between her eyes on a dark night, in a narrow street. She was in Amsterdam now, repairing her jangled nerves.

He picked up the Colt; his hand trembled uncontrollably, and the far wall at which he aimed was made of rubber, swaying and bending in a sickening dance.

A sudden knock on the door spun him around like a thief in hiding.

“Who is it?”

“Bissonette.”

Picard uncocked his pistol, unlocked the door. Inspector Bissonette touched the edge of his hat in a drunken little salute, as Picard’s heart sank.

The ruined old detective smiled at Picard in his pajamas, and emitted an absinthe-soaked cloud toward him as he spoke. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” said Picard. “Come in.”

Bissonette stepped through the doorway into the gloomy apartment. Picard understood the message before it was spoken. That Bissonette should call on him was proof that his stature at the Prefecture had taken a serious drop—Bissonette, swaying where he stood, kept on the force only because of his long years of service, reduced now to being the Prefect’s errand boy, and unimportant errands at that, for it was well known he would stop at every bistro along the way.

“Having a little target practice?” Bissonette nodded toward the Colt, which Picard still held in his hand.

“I was about to shoot myself.”

“Forgive me for interrupting. I can come back later, after you’ve finished.”

Picard walked to the kitchen cupboard, returned with a bottle of cognac and a glass. Bissonette removed his hat, looking at the bottle with a misty glaze across his eyes. His suit was wrinkled, his nose swollen, and he smiled cheerfully as he watched Picard pour the drink.

“You don’t look well, Picard,” he said, lifting the glass. “Here’s to your health.” He drained the glass in one gulp. “Yes, I’ll have another.”

“The Prefect sent you?”

“The Prefect sent me, of course.” Bissonette poured the second drink and drained it more slowly. “Do you mind if I smoke my pipe? I’m trying to develop new and better habits.” He fumbled in his pocket, came out with matches, studied them for a moment, continued his search for the pipe.

“What message does the Prefect have for me?”

“He wishes you the best, my friend, all the best in the world.” The pipe was stuffed clumsily, Bissonette sprinkling tobacco over the table, his suit, and the floor. “He understands you were badly smoked. We all understand, and naturally we’re completely sympathetic.”

“I’m grateful for your concern,” said Picard. “Is there anything else the Prefect wishes me to know?”

“He’s eager for you to return to service. Sent me here expressly to tell you... of his eagerness...” Bissonette’s eyes cleared for a moment as he stared across the table at Picard, and Picard saw the truth there, hidden behind the drunkard’s clumsiness.

“Out with it,” said Picard. “Am I washed up?”

“The general feeling around headquarters...” Bissonette’s eyes fogged again, stupidity clouding his gaze, but something drove the cloud away and he looked straight at Picard. “... yes, I would say so. It was unfortunate that the building you were in burned to the ground. And those on either side of it.” He reached for the bottle again. “It causes embarrassment for the Prefect. Won’t you join me? I hate to drink alone. A few drinks, a quiet afternoon...”

“I’m dismissed then?”

“No, no, no, my friend, of course not. Our Prefect isn’t a barbarian. You’ll continue on as usual... when you’re able, when you’re well. I must say you’re looking poorly, Picard. You need a drink to bring the color back to you. Sit right where you are, I’ll get another glass.”

Picard sat where he was, staring at the table. Bissonette rattled around in the kitchen and returned with an empty jar, into which he poured a drink for Picard, handing it to him with a smile. “Nothing to be upset about, nothing at all. It’s the younger men in the Prefecture who’re always making trouble for us veterans. They’re a pushy bunch, you know. But the Prefect understands. He asked me to give you your next assignment, when you’re ready, of course, when you’re able...”